Old Haunts
by lovelandfrog
Summary: Who are David Mills and William Somerset four years after John Doe's murders? One has been wasting away in prison and a mental hospital. The other has finally escaped the madness of city life, but people from his past are coming back to haunt him. A celebrity who's become increasingly interested in John Doe follows the men's every move...Love can't heal you, but maybe time will.


Former detective David Mills always thought that if he ever saw his old partner again, he'd knock his fucking lights out. Looking at him now, he just feels numb.

"Hi, David," says William Somerset, and extends his hand. It's wrinkled and leathery now from his days in the sun, like a rotting fruit.

Mills stands up, a little lightheaded, and gives Somerset's hand two quick pumps. He does not meet his gaze.

"I've signed all the discharge papers. We can go now." He gestures towards the two paper grocery bags at Mills' feet, overflowing with torn sweatshorts and crayon drawings. "Need any help with those?"

Mills shakes his head. He realizes that he's picking at his cuticles and exposing his left wrist, which Somerset is staring at; he shoves his hands into his pockets.

Somerset turns up the corners of his lips. His dull, tired eyes don't change. "We should get going, then."

They walk into the sticky June heat. Mills isn't used to being outside. The air's too heavy, too alive. The sun makes his eyes ache. A mosquito lands on his arm and his body twitches as though he's gotten an electric shock before brushing it away. Somerset stops in front of a gray Ford pickup truck and they get in, driving out of the city, driving away from the wives and babies and every evil thing that lives there.

"I'm truly sorry I didn't visit you in the hospital, David. Things have come up over the past couple of years, but...oh, but that's no excuse. The truth is, not many of your doctors thought you should come stay with me again…" His grip tightens on the steering wheel. "Well, I was somewhat inclined to agree with them. But it's calmer where I live now." His grip relaxes. "You can get a job again: be a farm hand, or feed store clerk, or something…"  
Mills thinks that he's going to start pounding his head against the dashboard if Somerset keeps talking, but he doesn't. He turns the radio on. For several minutes they both half listen to bombing raids and foreign elections, when the presenter says "And now we'll hear from motivational speaker Seth Howard, who's just published _Last Judgement: The True Story of John Doe,_ detailing the murders and journals of the infamous serial killer who-" and Somerset turns it off.

They drive several more miles. Suburbs turn into cows in wide green fields and small farmhouses, one of which Somerset pulls up in front of. In the front yard sits a black and brown mutt with floppy ears and a shaggy tail. His bags forgotten, Mills jumps out of the car to greet it.

"That's Marjorie," says Somerset, his lips turning up in a small smile. "She loves pretty much everybody, that dog."

Mills isn't listening. Marjorie has galloped towards him and started licking his face. Mills buries his face in Marjorie's fur, mummering "good dog, good dog," and some other gibberish that reminds Somerset of that long ago dinner in Mills' apartment. He sees that Mills is smiling; it's a tired sort of smile but a big and bright one nonetheless. Marjorie jumps up and pushes Mills onto the grass, and Mills is laughing as Marjorie's wet tongue goes in his ears and nose and between his lips.

"I've got lunch ready," he says a couple of minutes later when Mills and Marjorie show no sign of stopping their romp on the lawn. "Or you could see your room, of course, if you're not-"

Mills stands up and dusts himself off. "Food's good, yeah," he says, still patting the dog's head.

The front door opens to a large, sunny kitchen with a table and four chairs. Through one of the windows, Mills notices three chickens pecking at the dirt.

Somerset scoops soup into two bowls from a large pot sitting on the stove. It's light but hardy, filled with pepper and onions and artichoke, and as Mills wolfs it down in spite of himself he feels that familiar primitive heat begin to fill his gut once more. It's red hot magma bubbling below the surface of his skin.

 _Become vengeance, David. Become wrath._

"Nice fuckin' place you got here, Somerset," says Mills, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his head. "Had plenty of time to work on it? Roast some chickens? Take your dog for nice long walks?"

Somerset enlaces his fingers on the table and looks at his soup, than at Mills. "I've been a coward. I'll be the first to admit that."

Mills slams his fists on the table so hard that his bowl falls to the floor and shatters. "Oh, that's real FUCKING noble of you!" He stands up and grabs Somerset by the collar of his shirt. "Good old Somerset and the rest of the boys on the force, leaving me to rot." Spit lands on Somerset's face. He doesn't flinch. Marjorie, who stayed out on the porch, whines. "Oh Christ, Somerset, why didn't you just let me die? Why didn't you just fucking leave me there? I miss her, I miss her, I miss her." He releases Somerset and collapses on to the floor with his head in his hands. He is faintly aware of screaming somewhere in the distance, before he realises that it is himself.

 _two years ago_

His eyes are closed, but he's not asleep. Couldn't sleep, even if he wanted to. It was like this before the night that he curled up against Somerset in bed and let the older man wrap his arms around him.

He inhales. _Tracy._ He exhales. _My baby._ He inhales. _Tracy._ He exhales. _My baby._

It's been about twenty minutes since Somerset's hand stopped stroking the back of his neck.

This is how it goes. You make a mental list of everything around you that could kill you: the bleach in the cabinet under the sink, the plastic grocery bags discarded in the trash, the ledge on the roof of their apartment building. You make your decision.

He started taking baths instead of showers last week.

Mills gets out of bed without looking back at Somerset and walks through the darkness to the chair where he throws his coat. He keeps his razor blades in the pocket. When Somerset's not around, he rubs his thumb across the smooth edge and talks to his wife.

He ran the water when Somerset was already half asleep and never drained it. It's freezing to the touch, of course. He wants it to be steaming hot so that every cut stings, but Somerset's a light sleeper.

"See you soon, babe," Mills whispers. And then he begins to undress.

 _four years ago_

Moonlight showers the bed and the cardboard boxes surrounding it. So barren, Tracy Mills thinks, and yet it still feels like home. _Our_ home. She feels a deep ache in her chest as she looks out the window at the stars.

 _One of the last times I'll ever see those._

She wonders if she is supposed to feel bitter towards David for uprooting her from the town _,_ friends, and job she loves and yet she does not; they have just made love and he's spooning her, one arm loosely wrapped against her waist. Tracy places her hand on his and it moves up to cup her breast. She feels the soft tickle of his lips on the back of her neck.

"David?"

He grunts.

Tracy can think of a million things to say, like _do you think it's too late to back out of the apartment deal_ and _let's fuck one more time, like when we were kids_ and _i stay up at night thinking you're going to get shot out there, it's messier in the city, it's dirtier and cramped and full of gangs and i love you_ but what ends up coming out of her mouth is "Do you think the dogs will be okay?"

David laughs and turns her over so that they're facing each other. The warmth of his skin and his bright hazel eyes make her feel silly for saying anything at all.

"Hey, idiot, I bet they'll _love_ it out there," he says, running his fingers through her hair. "There's all kinds of new shit to smell, probably millions of other dogs to smell; and hey; if we've got a rat problem then they'll take care of it. They'll chew up all of the little bastards, leave them on our bed for us to wake up to-"

She laughs and punches him on the shoulder. "That's disgusting, David, stop it-"

"-you can roast them and we'll have rat and gravy, rat tails instead of spagetti, little rat eyeballs in stir fry-"

"Oh, God, I'm _really_ gonna throw up." But of course she doesn't, it's just same old David, ever since they were fifteen he's made her heart burst and throb with happiness, and as he rambles on she just says "I love you, I love you," and then he's saying it too, and before they know it they're asleep in each other's arms.

This is just one of millions of memories that Mills can never destroy, no matter how hard he tries.

"This book has truly been a labor of love for you," says the host. "You were able to gain access to hundreds of these gory, disturbing notebooks - something many journalists have tried to do, but were turned down by investigators…"

"Well, Gwen, I credit my career to that," says Seth Howard, chuckling. "Communication is a big key to success. I always say, give respect, get respect. I'm tremendously thankful to all those fine police officers who permitted me to read the notebooks for myself."

"But you weren't able to speak to Detective Somerset and Detective Mills about their experience on the case or the murder of Tracy Mills. They've never talked publicly, but did you at least attempt to reach them?"

Howard frowns. "In a manner of speaking, Gwen. In a manner of speaking."

"What do you mean by tha-"

"Mr. Mills spent some time in a mental institution shortly after being released from prison, God bless his soul," he continues in his Southern drawl, "and Mr. Somerset retired. Pretty much lived off the grid since then. And I say," Howard continues, raising his ring finger in the air like a politician making a speech, "those poor old boys deserve some time for restin'. Talk about a traumatic experience, Gwen! But if they're feeling up to it someday, I sure would like to speak to them. Yes, I'd love to sit down and have a talk with 'em a whole lot." And he grins with all of his bright teeth, a row of ivory tombstones.


End file.
